Two Faced
by CanadianCold
Summary: The person you see on stage and the one I truly am are not the same. You fell for the former, but can you love me for me?
1. Chapter 1

Electricity is in the air as I fingers strum against the strings of my guitar. Sweat beads on my forehead. The music is roaring around me as I let forth another epic riff. "Upside down – A – B – A – B – B – A – B –A," the words sound from my sister hypnotically as I spin on my booted heel and face her. She gives me a sultry grin and I wink in response as we continue our ministrations. The music drowns out the crowd who roars for us as I take the opportunity to take a few intense steps forward, standing in the foreground.

Wearing little more than a vest, left open, black, glimmering pants, both of which are made of leather, and a pair of combat boots, I can hear the screams of our adoring fans as I drag a few fingers down my chest, wiping away sweat before bringing it to my mouth. Weird things like this seem to bring out the best in crowds, and by the roars that succeed my strange actions, I know I've done my job. Hurrying around, Rin and I switch places as she saunters forward in her white heels, leaning forward and brushing her hand against a man's forehead, to which he seems to, if in spirit, orgasm at the touch.

Ours is a career of debauchery, of pandering to the perverse elements of people's psyches that they would never show in public. But when Len and Rin Kagamine take the stage playing the Cyberpunk Remix of Remote Control, along with many other songs, nobody leaves the concert feeling unaroused. I think it's part of being a former Vocaloid to be a degenerate, really.

The song crescendos around us into the fourth and final stage, and we're both looking appropriately sweat stained and ragged. Taking a moment as Rin sings her own lines, I sprint behind her and pull her hair off her shoulder. These kinds of acts were intensely uncomfortable, but a performer has to sacrifice! I lean very close and give her shoulder the slightest of kisses, and find the action downright repulsive. I imagine she does too, but we have a reputation to keep up, and that reputation keeps good people in good places.

I return to the song with my voice bellowing: "Sit down, sit down, sit down please!" I chant and can almost see a few people in the front rows buckle to my commands and barely stop themselves from doing so. "Goin' around, goin' around, turn it around," I let off another riff from my guitar, and follow it with a screeching squeal as I drag my nails against the cold metal of the strings before finishing the song, back to back with Rin: "Dancin', dancin', dancin' night – beltin' out, singin' now, I wanna be the one like her!"

Our instruments fall silent and the crowd roars, cheering, applauding, screaming our names in a maddened frenzy of hormone driven madness. In truth it's rather disturbing that our target audience is actually younger than ourselves, but, again, whether you still call yourself a Vocaloid or not, teenagers will always lust after you. Standing there, chest expanding and contracting rapidly as I pant after the song, still holding my pose with my sister, we drop our arms in unison and I raise look over the crowd: "Thanks for coming everyone!"

The thousand strong crowd roars my name as I speak, and Rin steps forward, a hand placed seductively on her hip, playing with the frayed ends of the tiny jean cut off shorts she's wearing, "Oh is that _how_ it is, Len?" She teases, pretending to sound annoyed. The crowd lets off an 'ooh' of suspense as she stares at me. I can see in her eye that twinkle of mischief, something that we've both had since we were newcomers to the public eye. "You'll thank them, but not me?!" She flat out states, and I force a blush to myself, letting a crimson paint my pale features. The crowd screams in shock and delight at our somewhat incestual connotations. "We'll have to have a talk!" Her voice echoes through the countless speakers around the stage, and begins to mock drag me off.

Our bouts of sibling rivalry are always received well, so we do them once in a while to entice the fans. It's an exhausting business being a pair of super star twins whose main draw is being strangely close and entirely inappropriate. To think we used to be the cute kids who only sang about cute things. We step off stage and into the curtains behind where we're offered towels. I take my own and discard my leather vest, finding it chafing and uncomfortable. Toweling myself off as I walk, I ignore the congratulatory remarks of the backstage workers: I'm far too tired for pandering!

Rin is drying herself off of her own sweat and grime, and frankly I can see in her eyes that she's getting tired of this shtick. You can only pull off a look for so long, and soon enough we'll have to reinvent the Kagamine twins _again_. "Len," a voice sounds behind me, and I look back to find our manager hurrying toward me. He's a portly old American with a penchant for clapping me on the shoulder, which I hate, but he's a necessary evil. "Great performance, buddy," he smacks me on the bare shoulder-blade and grins, to which I only roll my eyes as he continues to speak: "The crowd loved you two! But-"

I wave a hand dismissively at him, "Yeah, yeah. I know; VIPs need meeting. Let us at least shower or something? I'm sick of smelling like sweat and my sister. Why do people even like this gag? It's sick!" I groan in annoyance as he fails to understand my point and gives me a confused look. Now standing in the doorway of my dressing room, I run a hand over my long blond hair, left in a loose pony tail that wags around the centre of my shoulder blades, I explain myself. "This whole… almost-incest thing we're doing. It's just weird." He's trying to speak again, but I cut him off; his voice is just annoying: he sounds very cliché.

"Okay, I get it, shut up," I begin to close the door to my dressing room as I step in, "I'll be, like… five minutes. Tell those snivelling fucks to keep it in their pants, okay?" With that said, I slam the door closed and give the wall a firm kick. The room is surprisingly sparse, but that's how I like it. My normal clothes are neatly folded and seated on a chair which is placed before a dressing table and a mirror, while opposite to it is a large wardrobe filled with my stage clothing. On the aforementioned table are my cellphone and ring. The ring is little more than a gold band, and in truth looks more like a wedding ring, but it was nothing of the sort.

A fan gave it to me when I was touring England a year or two ago. Some guy my age said he thought it looked like something I'd like, and it didn't seem like a weird pickup line, so I kept it. It seemed like a good way to not forget who I was doing this for. I don't really remember him anymore, but I'm sure he was one of those dime-a-dozen pricks who you can always forget about.

Returning my attention to my sweat stained self, I forgo the shower, knowing the VIPs will like it more if I seem grungy, and instead merely strip out of the constricting leather and slip on a pair of pants which are styled to seem like a mockery of my former attire as a Vocaloid. Where I once wore a pair of white shorts with gold and black trim, now I wear a pair of pants with one leg stopping at the knee and with such detailing, while the other ends like a normal pant leg would with the same design. Matching it with a black sport coat and a yellow shirt, I decide I've driven home the point that these are my favourite colours enough through my attire and run a hand through my hair.

Looking into the mirror, I find a familiar sight. My boyishly cute features gave way to a slim, stunning young man with high cheekbones, brilliant blue eyes with the same vibrancy as my sister's, and a pointed, proud chin. I'm much more toned than I used to be, which helps when I'm wearing pretty much what a male prostitute would wear on stage, and I seem to attract more fans this way anyways. Slipping my ring on, I check my phone to find a few messages from my friends and coworkers, but one strikes me as odd. It's from a person I haven't spoken to in years.

The message reads: "Hey Len! Saw your performance. Are you sure you're not laying it on a little strong? JK love, I'm just teasing! Want to meet up? I miss your fine caboose!" Miku always had a strange way about making her point, and although we dated for a year, we broke it off when Rin and I decided to continue with our more intense singing and my green haired girlfriend wanted to keep with the Lady Gaga replacement gig. Not that I really ever enjoyed dating her; we barely did anything other than watch movies and bitch about who had worse music.

Moving to the exit of my dressing room, I open the door and step into the cool air that leaks in from the open stage nearby. Night was in full swing since the concert had lasted a few hours, but the roars of patrons outside told me it would continue for some time even without Rin and I singing. The aforementioned sister is walking up to me as I ponder why people hang around for so long, and as I go to greet her, she hooks her arm in the crook of mine and we go to meet the VIPs on the other side of the backstage area. "I heard Miku texted you," she begins with a smirk, and I roll my eyes. "Gonna get back together? The tabloids would have a field day with that."

I laugh coldly at the thought before speaking, "I think I'll pass on playing arm candy to Lady Miku, thank you very much. And for the record you know I don't even-" She shushes me with a wave of her hand as we pass by a few stage hands, and I relent to her wisdom. Best to not let that be known. "Good point, sorry," I apologise a tad meekly, and she smiles at me for a moment. We had always been close all our lives, and with both of us being natural singers and performers, it made sense to go into singing together. The Vocaloid Corporation found us as thirteen year olds and brought us into the fold where we became almost instantly famous for being attractive, exuberant, and willing to sing about anything.

Even as kids we sang about things as innocent as being super heroes to real topics like losing your beloved. The sad songs have always been my favourite, and I miss singing them, but sometimes life has a way of moving you past what you want. "Anyways, I'll hang out with her," I say after a pause, and Rin nods thoughtfully, "We're still friends, even if we're both busy. She and I have a lot of history, so I think it's important we don't let our friendship be destroyed just because we dated." Once more, my sister only nods, a thoughtful look on her face, and I smack her lightly on the arm, scolding her: "Stop thinking about Kaito!" I frown, and she only sighs wistfully, "He's not coming back no matter how much you want. The guy's an asshole and I won't let you waste your time pining for him. You're Rin fucking Kagamine, you can have any guy you want."

She scoffs indignantly at my notion of her having anyone, "I don't want just _anyone_. Unlike you I don't just parade people through my love life, I'm very picky!" Her critique hits home hard, and my arm tenses in her grasp. She offers me an apologetic look, and I can feel my anger fading quickly; I can never stay mad at her for very long, "Kaito and I were engaged, Len. He told me he loved me all the time and then just one day…" I shush her softly as she falls into morbid thoughts.

"Don't give it any thought. The guy's a douche," I assure her, before smiling a rarely seen smile at her, "Besides, you have me! I'm way better than any blue haired idiot. Ask the tabloids, we're _really_ close," I wink slyly and she only grunts at the things tabloids thought of us and what we did. Many thought we had an incest-born child in Canada while others thought we were secretly married and weren't even related. It was all just an act to garner support, and it worked wonders.

We turn the corner and enter a wide room comprised of a few circular tables and roughly fifteen people gathered around them, talking amongst one another. Rin and I enter as quietly as possible, silently thanking the security guards for situating the VIPs to thinking we'd enter from the far doors, and instead we simply unlink our arms and take a seat at the empty tables on the near side of the room. As opposed to making our presences known, I take out my phone and text Miku, while Rin pulls out a small mirror and fixes her hair. I think it's been over a minute before someone finally turns around and quite literally squeals in delight.

Our cover is blown and the other fourteen are now bearing down on us, jockeying to sit with us. Many of the teenage girls go to sit with Rin, along with a few males likely infatuated with her, while the opposite is the case for me. Somehow we seem to attract a great deal of admiration from the same sex without it even being romantic. Teenage boys seem to admire my brusque attitude in interviews while teenage girls adore Rin's confident demeanor and her stances on bullying and drug abuse. "Oh my god this is cool!" One person looks around excitedly as they sit across from me. Another reaches forward to either stroke my hair or poke my cheek, but in either case I slowly lean back, and they catch the hint: "Oh wow…" She speaks with reverence, "You're hot!"

I laugh a little, and thank her and begin to answer all the questions they have, along with signing all the merchandise they brought with them. After some convincing I'm able to get them to switch seats with those standing so they too can see me. Before me now are two young women looking to be either nineteen or twenty, along with a male seemingly a little order than the previous two. They're all wearing large hoods and are hiding their faces with them, so I decide I'd lessen the awkwardness: "Well then my friends, why the hoods? I don't bite!" I snap my jaws like a dog and grin, "Oh, I guess I do. Better watch out!" We all share a laugh and those behind them seem to lean in at my gruff, jovial nature.

The three before me exchange a few gazes before dropping their hoods, revealing themselves to be none other than Gumi, Luka, and Gakupo. Those gathered shout and scream in shock at the three Vocaloids, both former and current, having snuck into the VIP area. I stand abruptly and before I realise it, Rin and Gumi are embracing each other tightly, laughing and joking already. The fans seem to adore the exchanges and so I grin and fist bump Gakupo, who instead stubbornly grasps my fist and shakes it, as though we were shaking hands. It's a very awkward spectacle and those watching us seem to eat it all up. Turning my attention to Luka, I hug her lightly and she smiles at me before speaking: "Len, you smell awful and look like garbage. You dirty boy, what have you been up to!? This is why you should've stayed with Vocaloid! We kept you under control!"

Gakupo scoffs and waves dismissively, "Don't listen to her!" The ex-Vocaloid assures me, "I love your new look and genre, it's badass." I nod confidently at him and he returns the gesture, before we turn our attention to the fans. We three pose for them in a picture before taking some with each one, and a few group shots. Before I realise it, an hour has gone by and we have to leave. To be quite honest I was enjoying my time with the fans and my old friends, and Rin seemed to be thoroughly enjoying Gumi's company, the two of them feeding off their weirdness. "It's like some sort of weird off with those two… Green haired Honeyworks chick and yellow haired grunge babe," the violet haired man comments.

I'm sitting in a café in Dublin, impatiently waiting for Miku to show up, and I'm quickly realising I wish I had asked Rin to come. A third party would have provided something for us to talk about, as opposed to our complex friendship. However I'm glad the venue is what it is, as I can more easily blend in here; Vocaloid took Europe by storm years ago, but Rin and I don't do as well here because the society isn't as conducive to our kind of music, which is just fine for me.

The smell of coffee beans is thick in the air, and it's really helping me stay awake. The absurd blue haired girl insisted we meet in the morning for some horrible reason, and if not for a few bananas and a litre of coffee, I'd be drooling peacefully on the table, happily asleep. Sets of tables and chairs are strewn about on granite tiled floor, and the dark, woody countenance of the furniture seems to give a soothing atmosphere when coupled with the wallpaper. It really is a nice coffee shop, so I must admit that Miku has good taste in her locale for our meet up.

Alas, I'm awake and bored, so I remove the ring from my middle finger and roll it around in my hand, idly thumbing it about. The morning sunlight catches it and it sparkles brilliantly. It really is a lovely ring, and I wish I could remember the guy who gave it to me, but for the life of me, his face will not come to mind. The door chimes as its pulled open via a small bell above, and I look over to find a familiar face, along with two prominent aquamarine ponytails on either side, trailing behind her person. Wearing a simple floral dress, she looks the part of a Parisian, and she smiles at the man behind the counter on the far side of the establishment. Much to my surprise, no one seems to notice who she is, and I'm deeply grateful that I don't have to deal with being seen in public with my ex.

However more interestingly, following Miku is a young man looking to be twenty or maybe a year or two older. His hair is a bright blond, almost as bright as mine, but it's cropped short and styled in an almost militant style. He's wearing a pair of dress slacks, matching shoes, and a blazer over a collarless button up shirt. Most notably is the fact that he wears a white eyepatch over his left eye and has a few bandages around his hand. He seems familiar, so I assume he's a Vocaloid I haven't met. The two of them bear down on me, and I stand to greet them. Miku embraces me tightly and plants a kiss on my cheek, to which I only roll my eyes. "Len!" She chirps, spinning me around and looking me over. Wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I look entirely the part of a normal person, "What a dull outfit. You can do better," she quips and gives me a sly wink, letting me know she likes what she sees.

"Hello to you too, Miku!" I chuckle and let her go before she takes a seat, before I turn my attention to our third party. Thankfully she had done what I had not and brought someone to break the awkwardness that will undoubtedly begin if I don't say something to him. I extend a hand to him, and nod: "Len Kagamine, but you probably knew that." He takes my hand in both of his and shakes them almost nervously. My cocky disposition seems to have no effect on him, much to my surprise, and he only seems to brighten at my words.

The young man smiles a stunning smile, and I'm taken aback at his positive vibe. "It's bloody great to meet you, Len!" His voice sounds a thick English accent, and he seems to flush at it, "I, uh…" He scratches the back of his head after releasing my hand, "Mister Kagamine, I mean." Motioning for him to sit, I do the same after he does and look to Miku critically. '_What are you planning?_' I silently question her, though, as we are not telepathic, I am not privy to her thoughts. The Englishman folds his hands before him and seems to compose himself, "Oh! I didn't tell you my name, did I? Blimey, I'm daft. My name is Oliver Cromwell." He grins at the joke that apparently I have no idea he's making.

Miku giggles lightly under her hand and bursts into laughter as she watches me scrutinise them for the answer to what the hell was so funny. "Oliver Cromwell was Protector of England back in the day when they killed a king – Oh never mind, Len…" She laughs further, wiping a tear away. "That _is_ his name, but I think it's a funny coincidence." Tapping the table lightly, she changes the topic, "Oliver and I are touring, along with some of the other Vocaloids, in Europe right now, so I figured you'd love to take a seven hour flight to see me for a few hours." The Engloid looks expectantly to me, and I shrug indifferently.

"Still full of yourself, Lady Miku?" I jeer lightly, and she scoffs, "Well I figured I'd come see an old friend and take in the sights while Rin visits home for a little while. Time away from one another helps so we don't get sick of one another and kill each other." Miku nods thoughtfully, but I can't help but find my attention drawn to Oliver. His singular gaze is transfixed on me, and for a long moment I just stare back. Instincts kick in and I'm an abject jerk as I speak: "Like what you see?" I grin and say with a cheeky overtone.

He flushes and shakes his head, "No it's just…!" He trails off, looking embarrassed. I give a little flourish of my hand for him to continue his point, "When I was just getting going as a Vocaloid I always wanted to be like you… You're so cool and badass; you sing about intense topics and do it in such a… oh what's the word… such an awesome way." He quickly falls silent after realising he shamelessly gushed about me, but it doesn't really bother me, and in fact, I'm oddly honoured. Most of the time I just laugh and discount what people say about my performance, but something about this Oliver approving of my work seems really gratifying.

Miku abruptly pulls out her phone and presses it to the side of her head, brushing back an extremely long ponytail in the process. She gives a few short responses before saying goodbye and tossing the device onto the table, "Sorry Len, we'll have to bounce for a few minutes here. My manager's telling me there's some dumb meet and greet he wants us at. We'll be back in an hour, I swear!" She pushes herself up and ushers Oliver to follow her, and he seems strangely remiss to do so. After a moment of resistance, he stands, but before he goes to follow Miku, who's already hurrying out the door, grumbling obscenities and other less than admirable things, he stops and stares at me.

"I'm… really glad we go to meet, Len," he says quietly, "And it's really nice to see you're still wearing my ring…" I look down at the glittering band on my finger and back up to him, but he's already leaving.

How did I forget _him_?


	2. Chapter 2

"It's not really a choice, per se," I drawl, bored, before loosely crossing a leg over another and looking toward the audience whose likenesses are indistinguishable under the blinding stage lights. The fake room set up is little more than three walls, no ceiling, and a set of chairs separated by a small side table where an empty mug sat. The woman across from me nods thoughtfully at my words and looks at me expectantly. Reluctantly, I continue my point, loathing the interview more and more with each passing second: "Leaving the Vocaloid clique was just what we had to do. Rin and I weren't being inspired by hanging around with all the others, we were being distracted. Now we can do what we want and make real art."

Wearing a pair of bright red slacks, a white shirt with a gold ascot, I look the part of some sort of deranged nobleman as opposed to an international superstar, and even through the veiled suggestions for me to change, I can tell that the audience loves me. No one really cares what the interviewer has to say; hell, I bet she doesn't even care. She's too enthralled looking at me: she's been undressing me with her eyes ever since I got on stage. "Well Len, I'm sure all your new fans love what you and your sister have done, but what would you say to all those who miss how you were? The cute little school-boy getup, the innocent songs were all intrinsic parts that they adored in you."

I snort derisively at the thought of it, and shake my head, giving my golden hair a little shake. My bangs hang loose over my face and obscure my brilliant eyes, and frankly I find them annoying, but to keep up the appearance of being an intermediary between grunge and pop, you have to look both and at the same time neither parts. "Any fan who liked us for wearing what we did and singing what we sung about didn't know jack shit about us," I point out coldly, and a few 'oohs' escape the audience, to which I only smirk at, "Sure, we lost some fans for doing what we did, but anyone who didn't stay with us didn't like us for our music, they liked us for our looks. There's more to art than the pretty exterior; it has to have meaning and soul."

Looking to the crowd, I nod to them, agreeing with myself, "We couldn't have that meaning with Vocaloid, so we ditched the company and made our own way. Sure it was tough, but our current manager was more than eager to pick up the administrative slack, y'know? Who wouldn't want to be tied to the awesome Kagamine twins?" I grin wickedly as I question the crowd, and they cheer wildly. Leaning back in my seat comfortably, I drum my hands against the beige fabric and look back to my interviewer. She's a young woman in her thirties wearing a tailored pantsuit and has her brown hair in a professional ponytail. I'll admit she's quite pretty, and normally I'd be shamelessly hitting on her through the whole interview, but that damned Vocaloid is still stuck in my head!

His dumb, nervous laugh, the way he folds his hands whenever he sits, his perfect hair and angelic singular eye – eugh! I hate him with all my hatred, and that's a lot of hate. Why does he have to be so perfect? He's such a cliché Vocaloid; all looks no substance, like some marshmallow peep. Gripping the armrest of my seat for a moment, I realise I've tensed up and silence has fallen, and I look to my seated counterpart who crosses her leg over the other, mimicking my former position, and smiles at me. "So tell us Len, how do you get along with the Vocaloids? The tabloids are going nuts about you and Miku being seen together here in Dublin." She winks slyly and speaks again, "Is there something you want to tell us?"

Those gathered in the stands audibly fangirl, and I chuckle a mirthless laugh. Shaking my head, I receive a few 'awws' of disappointment, which I shirk off passively. "I'm afraid not. The only gal I have room for in my life is my sister," I grin wickedly and the woman next to me flushes. The gambit of always eluding to incest never seems to fail at flustering people, and to my knowledge the public largely loved it, so why not keep capitalising on it? "Miku and I are still good friends, and I don't hold it against her that she's still with Vocaloid – I don't hold it against any of them. Some of them are my bros, and that's just how it is. You can't kill a friendship just because you disagree with their line of work. That'd be childish."

She nods thoughtfully, and I relax, until of course, she mentions what I had hoped she would avoid mentioning: "But, the pictures show a third fellow with you two. Oliver Cromwell, one of the longest acting Vocaloids there is. He started off the year you and your sister left. If you don't mind, could you tell us what was going on with that?" Though she blinks and looks to the crowd and goes to explain a few things, "To everyone who wasn't aware, Oliver is one of the more traditional singing Vocaloids. He's more genre specific to slower, romantic music and classical."

I nod in agreement, pretending I hadn't ruthlessly researched him the moment he left my company. The little twerp is far too perfect for his own good and I wanted dirt to help me reaffirm myself as better, but sadly all I found was a clean record and a pretty smile. Screw his nice smile, I say! And screw him in the most nonsexual of ways possible! He's just some sap clinging to Miku's coattails, nothing more. "Well it's no big secret that he and Miku are touring right now, so she decided to bring him along so we could meet. People said he'd be the next Len, but hey, no one's that perfect, eh?" I grin before thumbing my chest, "Except me, of course."

The woman next to me smiles and nods, "Well Len thank you for being so open with us, but it looks like we're out of time!" The crowds boos and I wave dismissively at them to be quiet, "I'm sure everyone here is with me in thanking you for your time." Looking to the crowd, she begins the opening for their next segment, but my mind is already far gone from the situation at hand. I hadn't actually heard the twerp sing, regardless of condemning him as a vapid idiot… Maybe I should go to one of his concerts? I could go incognito, like a ninja. Or more like a superstar in a hoodie.

The crowd itself seems much more demure than the crowds Rin and I draw, but that's to be expected. This is a solo gig for Oliver, one of many, but nonetheless it's shocking to see so many adults come out to see him perform. A few hundred people strong, the crowd is paltry in comparison to the ones my sister and I draw, but quality of quantity. This isn't to say that I don't love our fans; they're amazing people and I wouldn't trade them for anything, but sometimes I wish people would complement us on the depth of our music and not how we looked. It seems like, even after leaving Vocaloid, we're still treated like one of them; one of the herd.

I'm about six rows from the front row itself, and I'm glad I'm not there. If Oliver knew I came to watch him, he'd probably be weirded out by the grungy Len Kagamine learning about him. Moreover it'd bring unwanted attention to us both: the paparazzi bother Rin and I enough, and I'd rather not get him mixed up in all that nonsense. The stage is strangely bare, save a single microphone stand, and although I've started concerts by doing the same and running down the centre with a guitar or sister in hand, I highly doubt that annoyingly nice guy is going to do the same. It would seem entirely too bizarre. Nevertheless I'm getting impatient and I can see why my concertgoers are so rowdy when we get on the stage. Those around me are speaking animatedly about the star of the show, and I'm starting to regret not having listened to _any_ of his songs. I can almost hear Rin laughing at me, telling me I'm still as forgetful as I was when we were kids.

The man next to me leans over to what I suspect is his wife and speaks with an eager tone, "I do hope he sings Fly Me to the Moon, or maybe Cry Me a River. I hear they're _amazing_ in person," he looks forward wistfully, shaking his head. It's a curious thing that Oliver sings these songs, as opposed to what Vocaloids normally sing about, and so I'm curious as to why they still hang onto them. The Vocaloid company has never been fond of rebellious artists, as they so politely showed when they gave Rin and I the ultimatum of 'shape up or get out.' Nevertheless I cannot help but wonder what this show will bring. What was it that made Oliver such a catch for Vocaloid? I really am staring to get annoyed at my lack of forethought regarding his music.

After what seems like ages, but in reality was the time span of a few minutes, the crowd erupts into cheers and applause as Oliver takes the stage. He's wearing a black suit with a bright red tie and in his hand he's holding a microphone. Raising a hand into the air, he waves a few times, "G'day everyone!" His accent drips heavily, moreso than in conversation, and I smirk as I realise that he just makes it stronger because people adore foreign beauties. '_I didn't just call Oliver a beauty, did I?_' My mind questions me, but I quickly put the absurd notion out of mind; Oliver is not a beauty and I am not having this inner monologue.

"Look at all of you!" Oliver speaks as he places the microphone into its holder upon the stand in the centre of the stage, "I feel as popular as one of the big name Vocaloids." Fanning himself with a hand, he mocks a spell of vertigo, "Oh dear, the ego is getting to me! Quickly, someone get me some booty shorts, I say!" I frown, feeling as though my former performance style is being mocked, regardless of having made fun of it many times myself. The crowd is loving his casual conversation with them, and some are even chanting with him. "Well that's enough of that silliness… What shall I sing first?" He rubs his chin thoughtfully as he listens to the songs being shouted out at him, "Did someone just suggest Spice?" He laughs heartily, and I pull my hood up, suddenly self-conscious of the fact that I'm a superstar and I used to sing that song.

Wiping non-existent tears from his eyes, he shakes his head, "I'm afraid I'm not a young Len Kagamine! But I think I heard a favourite of mine: Cry Me a River, so we'll do that. Sound god?" Once more, the crowd adoringly showers him in cheers, though thankfully I'm not swayed by cult fever and I keep my self-respect, regardless of the attractive, one eyed gentleman slamming my songs on stage. '_Attractive he may be, but he's by no means a stand up gentleman. He works for Vocaloid!_' My mind wisely reminds me of that all important fact, and I feel a frown take up position on my face. "Alright boys, hit it!" He turns around and points at the black curtain, which abruptly parts and reveals a jazz band, and the music begins to play.

The drums come in hard on each beat and the tension rises as the trumpets blare, and Oliver lowers his head before the music pauses before singing: "And now, you say you're lonely… You cried the whole night through…" His voice is, annoyingly, perfect. Each word, every note, is annunciated in perfect key, and he's the definition of suave on stage, moving smoothly from side to side. The song continues and he seems to get more and more into the mood of the song, removing the microphone from its stand and holding it before him; "Remember... I remember all that you said: you told me that love was too plebeian, told me you were through with me… and now! You say you love me…" He grins, flicking his blond hair out of his eye.

The song continues to build up and he's dancing on stage to the music, looking like a young Michael Bublé in spirit, but with his own unique style added in with his smooth, lyrical movements, as opposed to Bublé's erratic movements. I can't deny that I'm impressed, and the song is only getting better. The music's grown louder and he's getting more and more into the swing of things and frankly he seems infinitely superior to the man he's dressed like. Truly, his voice sounds even wounded as he speaks of the heartbreak the song projects, and the bitterness of the artist, but he almost sounds as though he's lamenting over his artistic bitterness. "You say you love me but you lie!" The trumpets and piano are going as intensely as they can before the crescendo on 'now' is made.

Finally the big finale of the song is upon us and the crowd rapt with anticipation as he trails off: "I cried a river over you… Oh, I cried a river…" He looks up, pointing forward, "Now you can too, cry me a river!" The music falls silent as he extends his arms outward and sings in a deep, impressively strong singing voice, "Cry me a river!" Holding the final note for as long as he can, he's only silenced by the roaring applause of those gathered. The deafening accolades continue on for an eternity, and I feel a bit jealous; his audience loves him for his singing alone, not for his sex appeal or for the sultry nature of what he's doing on screen. Realising that I could learn something from Oliver, I mutter to myself about Vocaloids being urchins.

Unfortunately for me, the woman on my right hears me and turns to face me, "What was that about Vocaloids, bud?" She challenges me, and upon my ignoring her, she grabs me by the arm and forces me to face her. I stare her down boredly until I realise she's fallen strangely silent. She's staring intently at me and her eyes are slowly getting louder, "Oh my god… You're Len Kagamine!" She exclaims loudly, and those around us turn to face me. On stage, Oliver is getting ready for his next song, and I hope I can either stop this news from spreading or leave before I ruin his concert. Kaito had come to one of my concerts in secret, only to blow his cover and steal the spotlight. It completely ruined the experience of having other artists there, so I can't do that to Oliver.

"It's Len!" One teenager exclaims wildly, "Where's Rin? Is she here? I bet she's here, find Rin!" They continue, and others jump in, now looking for my sister as well as asking me countless questions, of which I can only stare at, confused. The crowd of people who know I'm here is growing and I'm asking them to shut up and not make a big deal out of it, but my pleading is falling on deaf ears. I try to force my way out of the crowd, but I'm trapped and getting worried. The worst thing that could happen is if-

A voice sounds over the speakers scattered around the crowd echoes: "Say, what's going on over there?" Oliver asks as he points in my general direction. My incredibly intelligent and refined mind has but one word to offer: '_Fuck_.' People are now screaming I'm here, but the on stage artist can't seem to hear them, "What's that? Who's here?" He leans forward, as though that will help, and gives a light chuckle, "I do hope it's not my mother! Blimey, she'd be livid knowing that I had a concert this late!" The crowd laughs brightly, and I can feel the attention drifting away from me until someone behind me pulls back my hood, and those who are still staring in my general area gasp. Through some horrible form of shared consciousness, witchcraft, or just bad luck on my part, enough people shout my name that Oliver hears. "Len Kagamine is here?" He questions, confused, "Well I can't see him from, I'm afraid. Len, old boy! Come join me on stage if you're here!"

I'm once more physically compelled by those around me to join the Englishman on stage through being either dragged or forced. Eventually, I just give up, do as they say, and reach the stage. The stage is about seven feet off the ground, and there Oliver is, kneeling down and offering me his hand. Deciding not to be rude, I take it, but easily heave myself up the wall and jump onto the stage. "Len Kagamine, everyone!" Oliver shouts out, raising my hand into the air with his. The crowd screams at my appearance, and frankly I'm shocked to see I have fans that like Oliver's music _and_ my own. Such tastes do not mix, so I'm not quite sure how this is possible. "Len, what _are_ you doing here?" Oliver asks me as he turns to face me.

His face is damp with sweat and he's breathing rapidly, but all in all he seems like an entirely different person than the one I spoke with sparingly at the café. Placing the microphone before my face, I'm thankful I've been on stage so many times so that this isn't awkward, but nevertheless being the intruder on his event I feel very guilty. "Well," I begin, and his keen eye is fixed directly on me, "I was curious about your singing." The crowd oohs and I realise that my presence has the adverse effect of making people act like hormonal teenagers. He gives me an expectant look and seems genuinely curious about my thoughts of his performance, "From what I heard just now, I'm surprised you're not more popular than I am!" I chuckle lightly, deciding to use my stage persona's positive, if sultry, displays to lighten the mood, "Now, I'll get out of your hair. On with the show, I say!"

I go to leave, but feel him grab my wrist with his free hand, "I'm afraid that since you're here, you're stuck, old bean!" Turning to the crowd, he cock s a brow as he lays a hand on his hip, "Well everyone, now that we have _the_ Len Kagamine here, should he and I sing a song?" The crowd once more erupts into cheers and people screaming out songs, though he waves a hand, "Ladies, gentlemen! I can't let my guest not have a say, that would be most impolite! And as to the people who suggested Magnet, well…" He chuckles before grinning, "That might be a touch too familiar, I'm afraid!"

For some reason, his words stick in me like daggers, and I frown, though he doesn't seem to notice as he continues to speak to the crowd as he explains manners in the most dignified of ways. Turning to me, he cocks a brow, and my mind goes blank, "Hm," I think, before deciding to truly slip into my stage self and sling an arm around his shoulder, "I'd _love_ to do Magnet," I whisper into the mic, and once more the crowd becomes ecstatic at the prospect. It seems we have very progressive fans, he and I. Though what's more interesting to me is how Oliver's face goes bright red in embarrassment, and I decide to not be cruel, "But instead, let's keep to your genre of music. How about Error?" Standing upright once more, I look to the crowd, "Error, everyone, what do you think?"

The crowd overwhelmingly supports the song and Oliver seems to approve of it himself, following him composing himself once more. The band behind me is already madly flipping through large tomes labeled 'Vocaloid Group Songs' to find Error, and I decide to stall by making light conversation with my one eyed counterpart. "Well, if I'm going to perform, I had best get… comfortable," I say in a sultry tone, leaning into the microphone as I speak. The crowd whistles and cheers as I slowly unzip my hoodie, revealing a skin tight black t-shirt, accentuating every dip and curve in my toned upper body before tossing the heavy jacket into the crowd where a group of women fight angrily over it. Leaning over to Oliver, I ghost a few fingers up his arm, and he seems to jump at my slight touch, "You seem a bit overdressed, my friend," I grin wickedly as he looks at me with abject horror.

Looking into the crowd, I flourish a hand grandly, "What do you say, folks? Isn't Oliver a bit overdone for singing with me?" The crowd cheers once more, and I realise that I've reduced adults to hormonal teenagers with a bit of flesh and dirty tones. Oh, I'm good. He looks at me with even more dread in his one eye before I simply shrug, "You can't deny them!" I chuckle lightly as he slowly reaches toward his midsection and unbuttons his sport jacket before tossing into the crowd after seeing a subtle motion of my hand indicating for him to do so. With that, he pulls at his tie, loosening it, and unbuttons the top two buttons of dress shirt, before rolling up the sleeves, revealing a bandaged left hand. "Much better, right folks?" I ask the crowd, who seem to thoroughly agree.

Oliver is pale and rather slim, but I cannot deny his pretty boy good looks. Whereas I hold myself to a sultry, lewd handsome nature, he seems to embody a hardworking, diligent young man with a noble visage in his current attire. Turning my attention to the band behind us, the conductor gives me a thumbs up, and I can feel a wicked grin growing on my face, "We're ready!" I shout into the microphone, and I'm suddenly deafened by the cheers. Concerts seem to bring out the loudest of people into one place, and I love every second of it. Turning the microphone off for a moment, I lean into Oliver, accidentally breathing in his scent and finding it strangely… pleasing. '_Stop hitting on him!_' My brain scolds sternly, and I silently tell my inner monologue to shut up. "I'll go low," I explain, and his face ignites into a deep flush, and I can only flush at the sudden surge of inappropriate thoughts he likely just had, "On the register, fool!"

He nods, and with a thumbs up to the band which has now replaced trumpets and saxophones with electric guitars and a keyboard, I silently commend them on their versatility. The guitar begins its intro and is quickly joined by rapid drumming, and I begin to nod my head to the music, and after receiving a second microphone, from which I'm surprised Oliver was able to remove from his jacket before tossing it into the crowd, I move to the side, not wanting to be distracted by the annoyingly likable Brit. The music plays and I become very still, before beginning the song: "Can you see it? The tears in my eye? I'm blurred by the colours of life… What did you leave me? Ask me, I'll collapse." The crowd cheers and Oliver steps forward to take the next verse.

"Blue, red, and white are mixing – I'm shouting from this world! What was I wishing for? I was tired from chasing after it…" His voice is clear and pure, and I'm once more shocked and impressed at the quality of his vocals. Admittedly I hate using the word, as it's thrown around far too often, but he sounds angelic. As the end of the third verse comes upon us, I look to him and begin moving toward him, and he mimics my actions and as I finish the verse with him taking every other line, we look one another in the eyes before turning to the crowd and singing out the pained word: "Error!"

The song becomes more serious and I'm singing more deeply now, reminiscing of simpler times when I sang this song with Yuma and Rin during our time with Vocaloid. "Am I distorted? Let me know!" I ask the world, extending my hand miserably, letting my showmanship shine, and I'm echoed by Oliver who sings the line of 'I'm distorted, oh my woe!' and as the song continues into its meaningful crescendo into the finale, I fall to my knees, "Am I broken? I don't know!"

Oliver steps forward, placing his microphone into its stand, "I am broken, please save me, though!" His voice verbally shines as we sing the final lines together, "But I still want to breathe… Just like the end of the dream now, That I showed you with this sound – even the words we sing are stuck: error!" Once more at my Vocaloid counterpart's side as the song finishes, I can feel the adrenaline still pumping through me. I want to show Oliver that he was amazing, and that I really enjoyed our singing, but I'm not quite sure how to vocalise it. Unfortunately, my body seems to have a mind of its own and I don't quite realise what I'm doing before I can feel my lips pressed against his.

Fuck.

I just kissed a Vocaloid on live television.


End file.
